


Temptation

by WriteDragon (lightspire)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, due South
Genre: Crossover, Fluff, Love, M/M, Redemption, Temptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 19:11:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20013382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightspire/pseuds/WriteDragon
Summary: A story about temptation, love, redemption, and plenty of ice cream. Glitter may or may not be involved.





	Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> Every blog, if left alone for more than two weeks, becomes a Good Omens blog.

“Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.” ―  Oscar Wilde

^^*^^

The Angel Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Principality of Heaven, lover of humanity and connoisseur of crepes, et cetera, and so forth, bounced on his toes, enjoying the springiness of the green grass beneath his feet.

He was on a mission. 

Like many missions, this one required a bit of waiting, which he was currently doing. Fortunately, he didn’t mind waiting, if only because it gave him the chance to indulge one of his favorite pastimes, namely, being corporeal. In a park. With ducks.

He stared out over the undulating waters of Lake Michigan, felt the cool breeze as it tickled his hair, and listened to the rustle of leaves in the trees. Behind him, the Chicago skyline glittered in the morning light. Birds sang and butterflies alighted on his shoulders, unafraid.

There was no rush; he had time, after all. Well, a little, anyway. The Apocalypse wasn’t due to happen for a while yet.

In his hands he clutched a small package. It was a book, tightly wrapped in plain brown paper bound with twine. A verse from that wretched musical Gabriel loved so much — the one about brown paper packages tied up with string — kept trying to worm itself into his thoughts. He held the loathsome melody at bay, more or less, by humming a movement from Mozart’s  _ The Magic Flute _ .

Sure enough, Right on Time, eight o’ clock on the dot, his customer — one of Aziraphale’s charges, actually, but the man didn’t know that — arrived. He was handsome and dark-haired, his strides purposeful. Dressed in an immaculate bright red tunic, dark pants accented with crisp yellow stripes, well-oiled brown leather boots, and a tan flat-brimmed hat, he cut a fine figure, indeed. One could always appreciate a man with impeccable sartorial sense.

“Lovely day, isn’t it,” Aziraphale said, breathing deeply of the fresh air.

Benton Fraser looked around, taking in the trees, the lake, and the park. His companion, a half-wolf, half-husky mix named Diefenbaker, pranced beside him.

“Indeed it is,” said Fraser. 

Diefenbaker barked his agreement, and Aziraphale, after checking to see that the animal did not have glowing red eyes, smiled down at him. The mutt’s tongue hung out and his tail wagged happily.

“As promised,” Aziraphale said, handing Fraser the package. “I do hope you find it satisfactory.”

Fraser accepted the parcel and opened it with great care, smoothing and folding the paper flat as he did so. He inspected the contents, turning the pages with reverence. It was a very rare, very old, hard-bound copy of  _ The Importance of Being Earnest _ , in mint condition.

Tucked into the front cover was a business card. It read: A. Z. Fell & Co., Antiquarian and Unusual Books, London, England, est. 1800. At the very bottom of the card was a tiny image of an angel’s wings, printed in gold.

“It’s perfect. Thank you kindly, Mr. Fell. How much do I owe you?”

“Umm. I don’t know.” Aziraphale wrung his hands and shifted his weight. “let me think...” He rarely sold any books if he could help it, and knowing how much money to ask for them was always a bit of a fuzzy proposition. He stroked his chin, then looked up hopefully and said, “Ten pounds?”

Fraser, nonplussed, cracked a small smile. “I’m certain it’s worth far more than that. Will this do?” he asked, plucking a US fifty dollar bill from inside his hat. “I’m afraid I’m all out of pounds.”

Fifty dollars seemed like quite a lot. Was it a lot? Aziraphale wasn’t sure, so to be on the safe side, he said, “Oh, my, that is generous. Bless you.”

“I believe you are the one being generous, Mr. Fell. Thank you again for the book.”

“You’re quite welcome, my dear fellow,” Aziraphale replied, tucking the bill into his pocket and flashing Fraser a shy smile. “If you ever find yourself in need of another rare tome, please call on me. One must always have something sensational to read.”

Fraser smiled. “Absolutely. And yes, I remember how to contact you — by letter. You don’t happen to have email or a mobile phone, do you?”

“Oh! I do have, as you say, an email. It’s on the back of the card. I find computers remarkably helpful for keeping meticulous tax accounts, don’t you? Give unto Caesar what is Caesar's and so forth. But I do very much enjoy receiving letters.”

“Understood,” said Fraser, and reached out to shake Aziraphale’s hand. “Until the next time.” He touched the brim of his hat, turned, and walked a short distance to the road that ran alongside the park, Diefenbaker at his heels. When he reached the curb he stood there, head bowed, reading his book, waiting for someone.

Aziraphale watched him for a minute. Then, spotting his favorite vendor pushing a cart along the sidewalk, he made a beeline towards it, licking his lips in anticipation.

^^*^^

“Thank you, Terry. That looks scrumptious,” said Aziraphale. He joyfully accepted the waffle cone, which overflowed with a double-scoop of vanilla and chocolate ice cream. A spritz of whipped cream, a dusting of rainbow sprinkles, and a neon-red maraschino cherry decorated the top, just the way he liked it. He handed over the money Fraser had given him.

“Oh! I hope I have enough to make change for that. Hold on...” Terry rummaged in his cash box, counting out bills.

“Please, keep it.”

“Oh, no sir, I couldn’t. It’s too much.” 

“I insist. I’ll hear no more about it,” Aziraphale said, and smiled. Terry smiled back and doffed his black fedora, delighted at this unexpected windfall. 

Aziraphale walked along the waterfront, nibbling the cherry and sucking on whipped cream until he found an empty park bench. Before sitting down to enjoy the rest of his treat, he glanced over to where Fraser waited by the roadside, lost in his book. Diefenbaker was keeping himself entertained by circling Fraser’s feet and snapping at insects as they darted up beneath his paws. Aziraphale watched them a few minutes more to be sure they were all right, then turned to face the lake. 

A pair of ducks bobbed in the gently rippling waves, several fluffy ducklings paddling furiously behind them. Aziraphale had always loved living things, in all their variety and mystery, and the scene before him was no exception. How adorable! How magnificent and wondrous was Her Creation! His heart rejoiced and he couldn’t help but smile.

“Is that a flaming sword in your hand, or are you just happy to see me?”

Aziraphale jumped and twisted sideways, startled by the demon who had appeared on the bench beside him. 

“Crowley! You devil, you gave me quite a start.”

“Hello Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “Isn’t it a bit early for ice cream?”

“It’s never too early for ice cream. Would you care for a taste?” 

Crowley shook his head. 

“It’s fortunate you’re here actually,” Aziraphale sat up straighter, adjusting his tartan tie with his free hand. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something in reference to the, ah, Arrangement.” 

“What sssort of sssomething?” Crowley asked, drawing the ssses out, tasting the air as though it held answers.

“How did the Chiswick miracle go? 

“Chiswick went off as planned. She’ll be fine.”

“Splendid.” 

“And the Manchester temptation?” Crowley asked.

“Temptation accomplished. The MP was already so prideful, it didn’t take much.” 

“Glad to hear it.”

Aziraphale took a long, satisfying lick of his ice cream. “Why are you here, anyway? Haven’t your side done enough to corrupt this fair city? It’s a wonder She doesn’t flood the place with that lake.” Aziraphale tilted his chin towards the water. He took another big bite, moaning with pleasure as the cold, creamy substance slid over his tongue. 

Crowley waved a hand, taking in the entire city with a vague, sinuous gesture. “The humans did most of this themselves.” 

Aziraphale studied what was left of his nearly empty cone, then took a bite of the crisp cookie. “Well, if you’re not here to plague the citizens of Chicago,” he said between crunches, “then what in Heaven’s name are you doing?”

“I’m not doing anything in Heaven’s name, you numpty,” he said fondly. “I’ve been given an exceptional case. A Mountie of all things.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up. “No. It can’t be. Not the one called Benton Fraser, surely?” He turned his head towards where Fraser stood, still engrossed in his book. “I’ve been assigned to keep one of my thousand eyes on him. I’m his guardian angel.”

Crowley glanced towards Fraser and nodded, a thin smile tightening his lips. “That’s him all right. Well, well, well. What a coincidence. And here I was thinking you’d missed me.” He rested his right ankle on his left knee, thrust his hips forward ever so slightly, and pretended to brush a bit of dust off his snakeskin shoes. Aziraphale pretended not to notice.

“Of course I’ve missed you. But … oh, dear. You’re not here to kill him, are you?” Aziraphale’s voice was plaintive. “I’ve been working hard to protect that one. His heart is usually in the right place, but he has a rather bothersome tendency towards recklessness. He insists on taking the most unreasonable risks. Why, just last month I found myself in quite a pickle …” his voice trailed off, thinking of pickles and wishing he had thought to buy one from Terry.

“A pickle. You don’t say,” said Crowley, stroking his hand over his thigh. Aziraphale pretended not to notice that, either.

“Yes, quite.” Aziraphale swallowed the last of his ice cream cone, pulled a handkerchief from his wrist cuff, and dabbed at his lips. “In the midst of a near-death experience involving ships and pirates and all manner of dreadfulness, I found myself having to reinforce the instincts of his best friend Ray, insofar as it was of vital importance that they turn left. In a submersible.”

“A submarine? Huh ....” Crowley slid sideways on the bench, slouched against the arm rest, and peered out over the water. “Submarines and pickles — oh my.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale suspected that the demon was thinking of all the ways Benton might have been tempted in such a situation, and was grateful that Crowley had not been there to whisper in his ear. But then again, sometimes a submarine was just a submarine.

Aziraphale tucked the handkerchief back into his cuff. “He is so bullheaded — a bit like you, actually. His friend’s advice was insufficient. I had to prevail upon his father’s soul for assistance as well.”

“Did you now!” exclaimed Crowley. Calling on ghosts was usually Hell’s purview — hauntings and blood oozing from the walls and all. 

“Yes! I had to call in several favors that day, let me tell you. It took quite a bit of effort to persuade Benton to take a leap of faith. There was paperwork,” he shivered, shaking off the memory.

“Master manipulator, you are. Positively demonic. I’m impressed,” said Crowley. He lowered his sunglasses and peered over the tops of the lenses. The slits of his eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you don't want to switch sides?”

Aziraphale sat up even straighter, indignant. “I am most emphatically not a manipulator. You know we’re not permitted to do that directly. Faith has to come from them.”

“You’re only allowed to tempt, you mean?” Crowley waggled his eyebrows suggestive.

“I do not tempt. That’s your job. I merely suggest.” 

Crowley shook a finger at the angel. “Hypocrisy, thy name is Heaven.”

“Oh please, promise me you won’t hurt him. I’ve become rather fond.” Aziraphale leaned forward and placed a hand on Crowley’s knee, before snatching it away. “Please? For me? He’s an orphan, you know.”

That last comment did it, as Aziraphale knew it would. Crowley shook his head, resigned, and Aziraphale relaxed. He’d won. The demon had a soft spot for children, especially orphans, even fully grown ones.

“Calm your tits, Angel.” Crowley adjusted his sunglasses and shifted his legs so that both feet touched the ground, his knees spread wide. “Killing’s not really my thing.”

A grasshopper landed on Aziraphale’s shoe, bright green against the brown leather. 

“I prefer the slow slide, the gradual saunter,” continued the demon. The grasshopper jumped onto Crowley’s foot and burst into flames. “Oops,” he said.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the grasshopper reappeared on the ground in front of them, alive and unharmed. A second later, a mockingbird swooped down and gobbled up the insect in two bites. Aziraphale sighed and rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t look at me,” said Crowley. It was Her idea, not mine — nature red in tooth and claw and … beak, circle of life and all that nonsense.”

Aziraphale shook his head. 

“Anyway, speaking of red, now this one — ” Crowley gestured towards Fraser, “All I have to do is make life uncomfortable for him. I can make his collar itch, cinch his uniform a little too tight, let him stand in the rain all day. Irritate him just enough so that he’s snippy with an innocent colleague, and let guilt do the rest.”

“That is diabolical.”

“Thank you. It gets better.”

“Oh?” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You want to know my secrets? Thinking of expanding your options, perhaps?”

Aziraphale folded his hands. “Certainly not. It’s a matter of professional interest. How can I offer him succor if I don’t know what torments you’ve laid upon him? Hypothetically speaking, of course. For the record, we are not colluding or cooperating in any way.”

Crowley shifted his position again, slithering a few inches towards Aziraphale. He dropped his voice to a near whisper.

“Hypothetically speaking, and off the record, of course,” Crowley said, swaying almost imperceptibly from side to side, “I could corrupt the system of law enforcement that he pledged to serve so that it betrays him utterly, and he might be tempted to murder in cold blood, blinded by rage and confusion.”

“Oh, my, that is fiendish,” said Aziraphale, grasping his lapel.

“I may or may not have tweaked the engineering diagrams of a certain dam, and promised riches to key people, to achieve just such an end.”

“In the realm of conjecture, of course.”

“Naturally. Greed makes my job almost too easy.”

Aziraphale frowned. “And mine so much more difficult.”

Crowley nodded, a wicked grin twisting his mouth so that his eye-teeth showed. “Want to know the icing on the cake?”

Aziraphale enjoyed cake, although not the kind he was describing. “You had better tell me.”

“I’d better, eh? Or what? You going to make me?” Crowley arched an eyebrow.

Aziraphale lowered his chin. “Behave.”

“Never. As I was saying — this one does most of the work for me because he hates himself so much already. I only have to give him what he wants.”

“That is downright sinister.”

“And yet so satisfying. I can put it into his head that starched boxers are pious, that self-reprimands are appropriate. I can tempt him to those delicious, insidious sins of the ego: false pride; perfectionism; a pervasive sense of unworthiness; the idea that he doesn’t deserve comfort, compassion or love; and the fear that he’s fundamentally unforgivable. ”

“That is truly despicable, Crowley, even for you.”

“I learned from the best,” he said, pointing skyward. “The human imagination, manipulated correctly, is its own worst enemy. Pushed far enough, our Mountie will destroy himself and those who love him the most, and feel completely justified doing it. That, my friend, is my jam.” 

“Your what?” 

“My groove. My thing. You know. My sssstyle.” Crowley flicked out his tongue. 

“Oh. I see. You had me confused for a moment. Jam is simply lovely on scones and puddings and such …”

“It’s an expression.”

“I realize that now. I’m not a complete idiot.”

“We had him, you know.” Crowley’s hand clenched into a fist. “That one time, with the woman. Then your lot intervened, and, well...” he opened his palm as though releasing a bird. On cue, a flock of pigeons rose from the nearby grass and scattered into the air.

“Ahem, yes, about that...” 

“That was you?” Crowley turned to him, incredulous “You shot the poor bastard?”

“I merely altered the light. It was a tiny thing, inconsequential really, as miracles go.” 

Crowley snorted. “You made his partner think she had a gun, and he shot him. Typical. Exploit the humans into doing your dirty work so you can keep your feathers clean.”

“I did no such thing. I created a minor illusion. Really, Crowley, you mustn’t suggest that I did anything out of order. I have been informed by those close to Her that The Ineffable Plan requires him. He must therefore be protected until he fulfills his purpose.” 

Crowley hissed in disgust. “And you think  _ our _ side invented fascism? Whatever happened to free will?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, stuttered, and paused before finally gathering his thoughts. “You, of all beings, know I cannot question The Plan. That simply isn’t done.” 

“Oh, no, one must never question the Plan. That might lead to a nasty accident. One might even, oh, I don’t know — trip and  _ fall _ .” Crowley’s voice dripped with venom. “You want to know the worst thing about that time we nearly had him?”

“What.”

“All he wanted was … he just wants to be forgiven. To be loved. Don’t we all? What’s wrong with that? Where is the sin?” Crowley’s face crumpled in anguish. 

It broke Aziraphale’s heart. “Crowley…” he said quietly, placing a tentative hand on the demon’s shoulder, “My Dear. Please understand. Benton is forgiven. He is worthy of love — and is loved — dearly. On Earth, as he is in Heaven. His great sin is not knowing that.” 

Crowley recoiled, jerking his body away from Aziraphale’s touch as though burned. “How can you say that! How can you believe it?”

“Because it simply is. Love is.”

“Love. Ha!” he spat. “What gives Her the right to condemn anyone because they don’t feel worthy of love? Where’s the justice in that? How is it in any way his fault that he is abandoned and alone, cast out of his home and rejected by his own kind simply for asking too many questions?” Crowley raised his voice, almost yelling. 

“Anthony, please, keep your voice down…” 

Crowley hissed, and Aziraphale closed his mouth. 

“You,” Crowley seethed, jabbing a finger at Aziraphale’s chest, “you’re supposed to be the good guys— but you turn against them and then … and  _ then _ you have the arrogance to look away.”

“Crowley…”

“I’m not finished! And we,” he pounded his palms against his own chest, “we’re no better. It’s our job description to destroy them. And, face it, they don’t even need our help — they’re experts at tearing themselves apart.” Crowley raged, waving his arms and punctuating each accusation with a sharp jerk of his hands. “Hell, even basic physics is against them thanks to Her Grand Design. It’s a wonder any of them are still alive, that they haven’t said, ‘fuck it all’ and offed themselves, let alone haven’t all fallen…” his voice trembled, breaking into near sobs.

Aziraphale stared at him, shocked into silence. He took a deep breath. His features softened before he spoke, his voice gentle and full of compassion. 

“You really mustn’t believe such horrible things. Even though it’s hard to see sometimes, there is love. So much love. And beauty — even joy. Can’t you feel it? It’s everywhere. Look.” He pointed towards where Fraser stood. “His friend draws near.” 

^^*^^

Crowley shuddered, became still, and watched, seething. The pain inside him that had been there since the beginning, since his Fall, flared and burned in his chest. He was good at his job, damn good at it, but he was deeply conflicted. He had been forced into an eternity of doing unto others what had been done to him, and he resented the Hell out of it.

An American muscle car pulled up to the curb, its tires squealing to a stop. It was a shiny black GTO, something that Pollution would’ve appreciated for its terrible gas mileage, but Crowley admired for its vanity.

A handsome blond man climbed out of the car and walked — no, wait,  _ danced _ — over to where Fraser stood. His body language was clear as a church bell, visible to anyone who cared to look. He was happy to see Fraser, happy to be near him. A dazzling smile lit up his whole face, even crinkled the corners of his eyes. He opened his arms wide, inviting Fraser in for a hug. As they embraced, Diefenbaker jumped around their knees.

“It’s good to see you, Ray,” Fraser said.

“You too buddy.” Ray scratched the wolf-dog behind its ears. “Hey, fur-face, I haven’t forgotten you.” Gesturing to the book in Fraser’s hand, he asked, “Whatcha got there? A book on ice-fishing?”

“Why yes, Ray, would you care to read it?” Fraser’s voice was deadpan, but his eyes sparkled. “Actually it’s a first-edition Oscar Wilde play. Something special I’d been hoping to find. My friend there,” he gestured towards the bench where Aziraphale and Crowley sat, and gave a little wave, “procured it for me.”

Aziraphale waved back. Crowley merely nodded. He was busy studying the Mountie, his dog, and Ray as they bantered and laughed and flung pure love all over each other. It was like watching a glitter explosion, but with love instead of that nasty stuff that got stuck everywhere. Heh. Glitter — the herpes of craft supplies — was one of Crowley’s more devious inventions (as was, not surprisingly, herpes). The great thing about glitter was that it looked like so much fun but was a pain in the ass, sometimes literally, to get rid of. Come to think of it, so was getting herpes.

Yeah, Crowley could feel the love, of course he could. He had been an angel after all, once upon a time. He suspected that everyone in a mile radius could feel it — you didn’t need special powers for that. The rocks and stones themselves could probably feel it. Ho-sanna-hey.

“Do you sense it? The love between them?” Aziraphale asked. “Ray positively radiates it. I only hope that Benton can learn to love himself enough to feel worthy of it one day.”

Oh, the irony. Crowley tilted his head and eyed Aziraphale. If only he knew. For an angel so supposedly adept at sensing love, he seemed oblivious to Crowley’s feelings. Whether it was because he didn’t want to acknowledge Crowley’s adoration for him, or because he was protecting Crowley from certain retribution if he reciprocated, Crowley couldn’t be sure, but it was pure torture. He didn’t need the Pit to experience suffering — he had plenty of ways to be miserable right here.

But if Crowley was anything, he was patient. He could wait for his Angel, for the rest of his existence, if necessary. One day, he knew, they would be together. In this knowledge, and perhaps only in this, did he have faith. It would be on Earth (or Alpha Centauri, or Gallifrey or one of those distant green nebulas he’d helped create), it didn’t really matter. Because they weren’t getting any love from Heaven, despite Aziraphale’s tenacious beliefs otherwise. Heaven had its head up its celestial ass, and could go suck on a black hole, as far as Crowley was concerned.

“Nice car,” Crowley said, ignoring Aziraphale’s question. Admitting that he could feel all that love rolling over the landscape would open up a can of worms — a can so big it would make Pandora’s box look like one of those little music boxes that played _Tiny_ _Dancer_. “I miss the Bentley. They wouldn’t let me miracle it over here, and International Express refused to ship it, claiming something about it violating their ‘terms and conditions’.” Crowley crooked his fingers into air quotes and pouted.

Aziraphale sighed, “I miss good tea. Can’t get a proper cup anywhere here,” he shook his head sadly. “That one —” he pointed at Ray, “now he’s an interesting case. A broken soul, but underneath all that simmering anger he shines. He’s a fine dancer, too, though I cannot persuade him to the gavotte.”

Crowley grimaced. “That’s what will get him, you know.”

“What will get him? Get whom?”

“The Mountie. Benton. In the end. Love is how we’ll get him. That, and …” Crowley flicked out his tongue to sniff the air, “and a touch of lust.” There was definitely potential for the latter temptation with these two, but lust was tricky: sexual attraction was only sinful if you believed it to be so, or if you got greedy about it and caused harm to yourself or others. Still … 

“Whatever do you mean?” Aziraphale asked, breaking through Crowley’s dark musings.

“He’ll betray every value he holds dear for love, or the illusion of it, because he feels unworthy of it. He’s done it before.”

“Not if I can help it,” Aziraphale interrupted. “I’ll not see love used as a weapon, corrupted by your side. Real love is not a temptation, Crowley. Real love is grace.” 

“Oh Angel … can’t you see? Love is the biggest temptation — and the greatest weapon — of them all.”

Aziraphale became thoughtful. “You know, my Dear, I do believe you are right. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“I think I know how to save Benton now.”

“How?”

“You’ll see,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.

^^*^^

“Caroline.”

“Aziraphale. What brings you to the Borderlands?”

“It’s time.”

“At last.”

^^*^^

  
  


“Mom?” Fraser stared at the ghostly figure in front of him, tears filling his eyes.

Caroline Fraser’s baby boy, grown now into the most beautiful, imperfect, and beloved man, stood before her, her husband at his side. She beamed at her son, wrapping him in a blanket of love and light so strong that it crossed the barriers between life and death.

In that moment she willed these thoughts into his heart, into the very depths of his soul: “I love you. I always have and always will. I release you. You are forgiven. Go now, my son, you are free. We are all free now.”

Ben stared at her, awestruck and crying. The earth trembled beneath their feet as the thick stone walls around his heart shattered, crumbling to dust under the fierce and unstoppable power of her love.

Ben reached for her, and she nodded, smiling, one last time. He smiled back, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Satisfied that their work was complete — knowing that her son would be fine, that he would be cherished and happy — she took her husband’s hand and walked into the Beyond, finally at peace.

^^*^^

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Ray asked the blond Mountie who sat down on the log beside him, warming his hands by the fire.

“Yes, Ray,” he answered, rubbing his palms together. The bright full moon glowed behind his head, almost like a halo.

“Sorry, can’t place the face. One too many left hooks to the jaw, I s’pose.”

“That’s quite all right. I have a message for you.”

“Yeah?” Ray was getting lots of messages — everyone wanted a statement about the captured Russian sub, a report, a phone call to say they were all right. “What is it this time?”

“You might, if you wish, listen to that hunch you’ve been having,” the man said, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “It’s completely up to you, of course.” Then he stood and walked towards the mountains, into the star-strewn night.

Ray could have sworn the auroras that were streaking across the sky followed him, rippling downward towards him in flowing patterns, framing his body. Like wings.

“Huh.”

^^*^^

Three months later, Inuvik, The Snowshoe Inn, room 139. Ben and Ray lay drowsing, tangled together in the sheets, warm, spent, and content.

“Ray.”

“Hmmm?” Ray mumbled, nuzzling Ben’s neck.

“I love you.”

“Love you too, Ben.” 

And with every fiber of his being, Ben knew Ray’s words to be true. He was still astonished by the knowledge that Ray loved him utterly and completely, but he no longer doubted it. And deep down, in the deepest core of his soul, a tiny flickering spark was lit — a spark of faith that maybe, just maybe, in some cosmic sense that defied logic, he was worthy of that love, even if he couldn’t explain why.

“Thank you.”

“You’re still a freak.”

Fraser nodded. “The freakiest,” he said, and fell asleep with Ray’s gentle laughter against his skin.

^^*^^

Two weeks later, a park bench, London.

“You bastard. You did it. You saved him.” Crowley said, handing Aziraphale an ice cream cone. Against the odds, he’d actually done it. Too bad forgiveness and grace didn’t seem to come as easily for fallen angels.

“I merely created the opportunity. I had a little help.”

Crowley didn’t ask what kind of help Aziraphale meant, and didn’t want to know. Plausible deniability was the best policy.

“Don’t tell anyone,” said Aziraphale, “but I couldn’t have succeeded without you. I do hope you don’t get into any trouble over it.” 

“I won’t say anything if you don’t. I’ll hide it in the expense reports and write it off as a loss. It happens all the time. They’ll never notice.” 

“My lips, as the humans say, are sealed.” Aziraphale licked his ice cream and hummed happily.

Crowley watched those lips, thought about sealing them with his own, resisted the temptation, and sighed. He knew Aziraphale wasn’t ready yet. They couldn’t risk it. He would just have to wait, patiently, for Aziraphale to come to him. 

Love was the greatest temptation, after all — and Crowley was damn good at his job.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the ds_flashfiction Science/Faith challenge on DreamWidth; July 21, 2019.


End file.
